


Erised

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, here you go i guess, honestly i have no idea why i wrote this, i could've been doing homework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 10:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16972620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After the war, Draco Malfoy is on strict probation, his every move closely watched by the Ministry of Magic. Part of his probation sentence is that during his mandatory eighth year at Hogwarts, he must spend his Sundays in detention, cleaning out old and damaged rooms filled with memories from the war. During one of these days, Draco finds a peculiar piece of glass on the floor. Who is it trying to lead him to?





	Erised

**Author's Note:**

> uhh this was kind of spontaneous and the writing's not as good as i'd like it to be (lots of telling instead showing sldkfsd) but i wanted to post SOMETHING, yknow? enjoy this garbage lmao

Draco Malfoy was prepared to have a spectacularly awful eighth year. No denying it, this year would probably be the worst year of school he would have to endure. Between having his probation being strictly regulated by the Ministry, most of his extended family stuck in jail, and the fact that every student not part of Slytherin would probably despise him, Draco was dreading going back to Hogwarts. Sure, he was more than grateful for his second chance at life, but how the bloody hell was he supposed to actually enjoy his opportunity? He reckoned he’d probably be spending much of his free periods studying in the dungeons, just to avoid other students in the library. Not to mention, he had to spend Sundays cleaning up old classrooms as part of his school-ordained punishment- like detention, but worse. Sighing in defeat, Draco slammed the top of his trunk closed, rising to bid his mother goodbye before leaving for his final year at Hogwarts. Narcissa was waiting expectantly for him at the front door. She held out her arms to Draco, who gladly accepted her embrace. Draco heard his mother whisper gently into his ear, 

“I love you.”

Draco smiled, eyes watering. Narcissa barely spoke anymore after the war, and ate even less. These were, in fact, the first words she had said in over a month, and it made Draco swell up with joy. 

“Love you too, mum. I promise to write every week.” 

There was a knock at the door. Narcissa opened it to find the Ministry official that was to escort Draco to King’s Cross, seeing as Draco was not allowed to Apparate during the probation. Penny Trotwood was a kind woman, barely entering her thirties. Although he didn’t tend to show it, Draco was grateful beyond measure that she was his probation officer, and not some stuffy, old, ex-Gryffindor, middle-aged man that wouldn’t see past his last name. 

“Mr. Malfoy, as you know, you are not permitted to Apparate on your own. I will take you to King’s Cross by means of Side-Along Apparition, if that’s okay with you?” 

“Yes yes, that’s fine Auror Trotwood,” Draco replied and latched onto the woman’s arm. 

With a turn of the Auror’s foot, they disappeared from the Malfoy gardens. Draco felt his entire body condense; he felt as if his eyeballs were being pushed back into his head and his knees were being shoved into his chest. Just as suddenly as they had vanished, they arrived at King’s Cross, in front of the famous Platform 9 ¾. Auror Trotwood patted Draco on the shoulder and said, almost secretively, 

“I know I’m supposed to escort you all the way to the train, but I think you’re more than capable of doing so on your own, don’t you think Mr. Malfoy? And,” she fumbled through her robe pockets and pulled out two shiny, golden Galleons. “Buy yourself some candyfloss for me, it’s my favorite.” She smiled at him, partially out of pity but also out of pride at how much he’s changed over the summer, before Disapparating with a distinct pop. 

Draco pocketed the Galleons. It’s not like he actually needed the money; since he was the sole heir to the Malfoy fortune, he was actually filthy stinking rich. But it was the thought that counted, he supposed. He made a mental note to send an owl filled with all sorts of candyfloss from Honeydukes to Auror Trotwood, as sort of a thanks for her understanding. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and ran straight through barrier that divided platforms 9 and 10. 

When Draco opened his eyes, it felt like his first time at the station all over again. He was scared, terrified even, of what he knew he was going to have to face during the year. But, underneath the terror, he was actually a little excited. He could finally start making a truly positive difference in the world after this year, without his father or the Dark Lord putting their ideals into his head.

The Dark Lord. Draco shivered at the thought of his name and tugged habitually at the sleeve of his left arm. The Dark Mark was still there, still a pressing reminder of how truly fucked up he had been. He spent weeks during the summer going through spells that could possibly make the Mark disappear, but all of them were futile. He resorted that he’d just have to wear long sleeves for the rest of his life, and tossed out all of his clothes that could possibly allow a glimpse of the snake skull tattooed on his arm. Gone were all the short-sleeved t-shirts, all the dress robes with billowy sleeves that could possibly roll up, all the semi-formal button-downs that cuffed just below the elbows. He had taken to dressing a bit more casually over the summer, and today he found himself wearing a crisp white button down shirt tucked into black skinny jeans with holes at the knees (“How stereotypically teenager of you, Malfoy,” Auror Trotwood had teased, and Draco had almost laughed), well-worn black canvas shoes, and a green and silver Slytherin tie. Although it was probably some sort of Pureblood fashion disaster to be pairing those clothes together, Draco secretly liked it. He felt like it melded both his younger, rebellious teenager side and his more refined and elegant side.

As Draco stepped onto the train, he was presented with a new challenge: Where the hell was he supposed to sit? Though he usually sat with his closest friends, Pansy and Blaise, he knew they were likely sharing a compartment with Theodore Nott today. Draco didn’t hate the bloke or anything; he just didn’t want to be associated with him while they were both on probation under the Ministry. Common sense dictated that, no matter how innocent the reason, two wizards - both under probation, of course - conversing would imply some sort of pureblood banter or, god forbid, some bullshit scheme. Merlin, how did things turn out like this? Why couldn’t he have just destroyed that bloody cabinet? Why didn’t he join the D.A instead of nearly getting them all killed? Why didn’t he tell Weasley's sister that the diary was a fucking Horcrux?

Why didn’t he try to befriend Potter all those years ago?

That was the decision Draco regretted the most. Maybe if he had been a little kinder to Potter in the beginning, he wouldn’t have ended up like, well, like this. With piles and piles and piles of regrets on Draco’s shoulders, and burned into his forearm. He walked down the length of the train in a manner unbecoming of his family’s teachings - eyes glued to his shoes, furtively hoping that nobody spoke to him before taking his seat in a compartment near the very back of the train. The train had just started to move when he heard footsteps approaching his compartment. There really was no reason for anybody else to be back here, thus naturally, Draco assumed the worst. He gripped his wand tightly, hoping to scare off anybody that would come back here to attack him. Although, it wasn’t like he was allowed to perform any magic on another student (self defense or not) without violating the code of his probation. 

“Potter?!” he questioned. “What are you doing here?” 

Draco was surprised to see not some self-righteous fifth-year coming to hex him, but Harry Potter himself, saviour of the bloody world and all that. 

 

“Oh, ah, hello Malfoy,” Potter replied awkwardly. “Erm, well, Ron and ‘Mione were snogging when I walked into our usual compartment, so I decided to, y'know, give them a bit of space.” 

So Weasley and Granger had finally gotten together? Draco was rather surprised that dunce of a Weasley had managed to land a date as intelligent and beautiful as Granger. As mean as he was to her, Draco thought that, frankly, she was a bit out of Weasley's league. Not that he said any of this out loud, of course. Fresh start and all that. 

“Well, you’re welcome to sit here, I suppose.” Draco replies. As an afterthought, he adds “If you want to.”

Potter plopped down on the seat across from Draco, lazily stretching out his legs across the small sofa. Draco glanced at the other’s filthy shoes, barely holding back a biting comment on how Potter was dirtying the sofa and whatnot. Even though it was true. Especially since it was true. After all, he didn’t want to ruin the fragile sort of balance that they had then - at least, not yet. Draco racked his mind for something interesting to say, something to break the somewhat awkward and uncomfortable silence - but even so, how the bloody actual hell was he supposed to phrase “Potter, I’m sorry for trying to ruin your life at every turn for the past seven years of my life just because the Dark Lord couldn’t kill you” like a conversation starter? And convey it with genuine regret?

“So, erm, I never properly thanked you for defending me at the Wizengamot, Potter. So, err, thank you.” Did he really just use the word “thank” twice? God, he was such an idiot. 

Potter stared at Draco in shock - though not to Draco’s surprise. After all, he’s never had a non-aggressive quip at the other boy before, much less one filled with genuine gratitude.

After a few awkward seconds, the other boy finished processing what was just said and replied

“It’s no problem, Malfoy. Oh, before I forget,” He shifted in his seat to fumble through a bag at his feet, “Here’s your wand. I’m sorry, I meant to return it earlier.” 

“Oh no, you keep it.” Draco waved his hand, gesturing vaguely in the air. “Too many memories.” 

Luckily, Potter seemed to understand what he meant by that, and quickly packed up the wand, nodding. Another twenty minutes went by as the pair sat in an uncomfortable silence, though admittedly not as agonizingly painful as before. Finally, Draco felt like he had to get those damn words off his chest. Words that he hoped would make up for at least some of the things he’d done almost a lifetime ago.

“Hey, look, Potter. I’m really sorry for, well, everything-” Potter glanced up at his opening words, making Draco gulp. There was shock and thinly veiled suspicion in the other boy’s bright green eyes, so bright you could get lost in them- “- and, ah, I was a right prat to you back in the day, and I never treated you with the respect you deserve.” Another awkward pause came and went as Harry seemed to realize where this repenting monologue was going. “And, for what it’s worth, I never really hated you. It’s not an excuse, but I suppose I just got caught up in the rivalries my father had.” Draco breathed out a sigh of relief as he finished, but his ears reddened in embarrassment. There was no bloody way Potter was going to accept his feeble attempt at an apology, was there?

Another stifling handful of seconds passed until Potter got over the shock of what Draco had just confessed “To be fair, Malfoy, I didn’t treat you well either,” the other boy started. “I spent a lot of my life severely misjudging the entire Slytherin house, and that’s no one’s fault but my own. I suppose I’m sorry too.”

Draco blinked at him incredulously. That was something even he hadn’t expected. Him apologizing, sure, but Potter apologizing too? He had planned for the worst, snarky comments at the ready in case his heartfelt speech was laughed off. 

“How the fuck can you just forgive me like- like that? I was a monumental arsehole; I called you bloody Scarhead for nearly three years straight!” 

To his surprise, Harry laughed, sending an embarrassing blush shooting up Draco’s face (which most certainly did not help). 

“D’you really think I was going to come back from the dead after killing a bloody evil murderer or whatever the fuck and then get into a scuffle over all the stupid nicknames we had for each other?”

Draco supposed it was a bit silly for that to be the first thing he apologized for, but still, that was the first thing he thought of. 

“And let’s be real, Malfoy, we were both all mouth and no trousers. The worst you ever did was make a bunch of annoying badges about how much I stink.”

Draco gasped in mock offense. “I assure you, Scarhead Potter, that I could pull my own against you in a fight any day.” 

“Well, Ferret Boy, I think you would win if it was a fight about who’s a bigger prat.”

The two of them spent the rest of the train ride going back and forth in an easy banter, almost as if they had been friends their entire life. Draco smiled helplessly- it seemed like the phrase “familiarity breeds contempt” was true in reverse as well. They were no longer the innocent first years they used to be, idealistically sticking to premade beliefs. Harry pointed out how he’d never thought he’d see the day where the ‘wonderful Draco Malfoy himself’ would taint his regal feet by encasing them in canvas shoes, and in turn, Draco shot back that he’d never thought that he’d see the day where Saint Potter would use a word with more than three syllables in it. They laughed about how stupid they used to be, and wondered about how much things had changed in the span of one summer. When the train finally stopped, Draco stood up, dusting off his trousers.

“Well then, see you later, Scarhead.”

“Au revoir, Ferret Boy,” Harry replied, a pleasant smile plastered to his face. 

-o-

The first week of eighth year passed by in a whirlwind of homework and essays for Draco. Unlike their younger peers, eighth year students barely got a day to settle back in before they were thrust into newer, more tiring N.E.W.T level classes. Since Hogwarts had never had an official eighth year class, there was no actual dormitories for them and they slept in an old Astronomy tower. Professor-no, Headmistress McGonagall thought it was fitting that dorms were divided by gender instead of House, seeing as their class was rather small and in the hopes that it would foster some much-needed class unity. 

Today was Sunday, which means it was time for Draco’s weekly detention. Professor Flitwick had directed him to the classroom full of broken objects and other old artefacts (remnants from the Battle of Hogwarts that nobody bothered to clean up) that was located at the of the Serpentine Corridor. His job, for the rest of the semester, was to spend the majority of his Sundays throwing the rubbish away. A boring and laborious task, probably fit for a prison sentence, Draco thought. He sighed, looking around the classroom filled with bits and bobs of nearly everything: torn and dusty robes, broken bricks that had fallen out of the walls, nearly ancient chests and dressers, a plethora of damaged tapestries and paintings, various broken furniture, even a cabinet.   
Draco’s thoughts suddenly paused, eyes fixating immediately on the tall wooden cabinet. A cabinet? Could it be? Impossible, the Ministry would have disposed of the Vanishing Cabinet properly. That bloody Vanishing Cabinet that he just had to go fix instead of using his three brain cells and realizing how fucking stupid his actions were. Draco bloody well knew that it wasn’t the real Vanishing cabinet, but the resemblance evoked a spark of rage in his chest that quickly flourished into a burning flame. He kicked mercilessly at the cabinet, knocking it over and splintering some of the wood. He pulled apart at the bureau with all his might, slivers of wood ingraining themselves into his palms. If it weren’t for that stupid fucking cabinet, maybe all of this shit wouldn’t have happened, he thought, livid with anger. Groping for his wand angrily, Draco spat out the only destructive charm that came to mind, one that was of course approved for use under probation.

“Incendio!”

 

Out from his wand spewed a burst of fire, torching the wooden bureau. Draco violently lurched for a length of wood, one end dripping red hot embers. Without thinking, he tore off the left sleeve of his tattered work shirt, exposing that godforsaken Mark of regret forever embedded into his skin. Smiling sadistically to himself, he pressed the burning end of the wood to the mark, and let out a choked scream in pain. Blinking back the tears that were starting to form in his eyes, Draco looked down at the Mark, hoping that it too would be marred by the flames.

Predictably, it was not. All the pain of burning his arm was there, but that stupid fucking mark stubbornly remained. Draco let out a helpless sob as he tossed the wood aside and wordlessly nulled the fire-conjuring charm, slumping down on the hard stone floor of the classroom and drawing his knees to his chest. 

As usual, clarity flooded Draco’s mind a few seconds after his torrential outburst. Why the fuck had he just done that? He couldn’t control his fucking anger long enough to not destroy a bloody glorified bookcase, he thought, looking disgustedly at his handiwork. Draco rested at the side until he caught his breath, before finally summoning the charred remains of the cabinet and sorting them. 

The fire had faded and the job was done, what more did he have to complain? Draco mocked himself internally, recalling his family’s fall from grace once again. Turning to leave, Draco picked up his fallen wand when something caught his eye. A piece of stained glass? Upon further inspection, the object was not stained glass; rather it was a shard of a mirror with jagged edges, about the size of a leaf. Furrowing his brow, Draco looked around in confusion. The room contained no mirrors; after all, he’d checked every corner of it before he started cleaning. Where could the shard have possibly come from? Puzzled, he held it up to his eye to see if he could glean any information on its origin only to realize the eye reflected was not the pair of tired grey eyes he saw every morning, but green and twinkling with mischief. Whose eye was it? Draco pondered the question, turning the shard in his hand as he thought. 

Suddenly, the rhythmic sound of footsteps approaching his classroom broke the silence. Judging by the spacing of the sound, Draco guessed it was probably Professor Flitwick, coming to inform him that his first detention session was over. Pocketing the mysterious shard, Draco rose to greet the professor. 

The shard emerged again late at night, long enough after curfew so that Draco was sure that all the other students were either asleep, or too busy shagging each other senseless (Seriously, did Finnigan and Thomas not realize that the entire bloody dorms could hear them? At least put up a Silencing Charm, for Salazar’s sake). Without a soul as witness, Draco close the curtains to his bed and casted a wordless Lumos before examining the eye from the broken mirror again. It seemed familiar and foreign at the same time, making Draco’s skin crawl. Its lashes were dark and long, curling outwards as it framed the green, making Draco wonder if they ever tangled up when the owner blinked. Draco moved the mirror around, fiddling with it so different parts of the reflection’s face were visible to him. He made out messy dark hair, a strong chin, and skin that was a light golden tan. 

Wait a minute...

Draco began to piece together a frightening realization in his head. Green eyes, messy black hair, tanned skin... No, there was no fucking way, no bloody fucking way it could be him! Fear seized his gut, and he moved a shaky hand so that the tiny fragment of a mirror showed the reflection of his forehead. And there, right above his right eyebrow, was the telltale lightning-bolt scar of none other than Harry-bloody-Potter, the prat who lived. 

“I’m so fucking screwed,” Draco whispered, to no one in particular. 

He wasn’t exactly sure why the mirror was showing him Potter’s face. Hopefully it was because he and Potter were rivals or anti-heroes or something cool like that instead of just showing him the main character of his sixth-year wank fantasies.

Draco jolted upright in his bed, almost dropping the mirror in his sheets. Where the hell had that thought come from? He shook his head as if to physically expel the thoughts from his mind. There’s no way that that’s what the mirror was trying to show him. Plus, that was only once or twice, Draco thought to himself, attempting to rationalize the situation. What did he think of usually? Perusing his mental library of arousing material, he tried to count how many times he thought of the golden boy while wanking. Not very often, but Draco began to notice a repeating pattern of a faceless, broad-shouldered, tawny skinned young man on his knees, with his swollen pink lips around Draco’s cock

Bloody hell. 

Draco groaned in annoyance. But, he thought, a spark of hope firing in his chest, that still might not be what the mirror was trying to convey to him. Okay, but where would he be able to find the rest of the mirror? It wasn’t in the rubbish classroom, it wasn’t in the artefacts room (he’d checked), and it wasn’t in Headmistresses McGonagall’s office (where he’d reported to earlier after finishing up his cleaning). Where on Earth could he find the rest of a mirror that didn’t, well, exist? 

The Room of Requirement! Yes, that’s where he’d be able to find anything he needed. All he had to do was sneak out after curfew, risk getting caught by Filch, and find a classroom that he wasn’t even sure still existed after one of his ex-friends attempted to destroy it. Fantastic. 

The whole thing probably violated about fifty codes of his probation, and if anyone caught him, he’d most likely get expelled from Hogwarts. Weighing the pros and cons, it took all of two seconds before his inner Gryffindor recklessness took hold and he decided to do it before he could think it through. Damn the consequences. 

-o-

Draco hurried down the hallway of the seventh floor, eyes on the lookout for Filch or Mrs. Norris. He swore he could hear footsteps following him, but every time he turned around to check, nobody was there. Suddenly, he felt something brush up against his right hand. On instinct, he reached out snatched it while simultaneously yanking his wand out of his pyjama bottoms. There stood a slightly disheveled-looking Potter, who eyed his invisibility cloak that was caught by Draco’s fist.

“What the hell are you doing?” Draco snapped, groaning internally about his stupid luck. Although, he doubted the saviour of the wizarding world was likely to get in much trouble for something as trivial as being out past curfew.

“Could say the same to you,” Potter shot back, without missing a beat.

“I was, er, using the Prefects’ bathroom.”

“Bullshit, that’s on the fifth floor of the hospital tower and you bloody well know it.”

“How would you know?”

“I was a prefect, remember? What are you doing?” 

Draco signed in resignation. It was late and he was tired and in no mood to be dealing with Harry godforsaken Potter, the wonderful saviour of the wizarding world and (possible) owner of that lock of black hair in the mirror- 

“Looking for the Room of Requirement- now get out of my way.” Draco stated gruffly. As an afterthought, he added, “Please.” 

“Well, I was headed in that general direction as well. Mind if I escort you?”

By this point, Draco was ready to burst with frustration. Through gritted teeth, he dug out the most distantly polite response he could possibly formulate. 

“Fine. That would be lovely.” 

With Potter leading the way, Draco had some time to come up with a plan as to how he’d keep Potter out of his way while he… finished his job. He’d just ask Potter to stay outside, and ask the Room to lock the door for him. Simple, he reassured himself. Why did he think that it was anything but? 

Once they got to the Room, Draco did the customary three paces, and, as if by magic, the door appeared before him. He stepped inside, held out the piece of glass, and asked as nicely as one could ask an empty room:

“I require the rest of this mirror.”

In a puff of smoke, an ornate upright mirror arose from thin air. There was an engraving at the top, but Draco had neither the eyes nor the strength to make out what it was. No, he was far too preoccupied with its reflection. couldn't make out what it was. He was far too preoccupied with what the looking glass reflected back to him.

There, as clear as day, stood an image of himself, ten years older and ten times happier. He was sporting the uniform black DMLE robes, worn by all Aurors. Behind him, his mother and father were smiling back at him supportively. His father’s eyes were not hazed by alcohol or anger, and his mother’s were free of grief. And, holding his right hand, was an older Potter, wearing matching robes as his and a matching band as Draco around his ring finger. Draco did his best to will down the blush crawling up his neck, but it was futile. Suddenly, a voice broke the silence.

“Why did the Room- wait, why do you need the Mirror of Erised? 

“What are you doing here, Potter?!” Draco yelped in surprise. 

“Dunno. One minute I was outside and the next I’m here. Did you… require me?” 

“No! The Room must be broken. I didn’t ask for… whatever that is. What did you call it?”

Harry paused, most likely wondering if he should trust his former rival with the information. 

“It’s called the Mirror of Erised,” he said carefully. “It’s supposed to show you your heart’s greatest desire.”

“Oh.” was all Draco could get out.

“Why? What do you see?”

“Er-” Draco fumbled for words. “My parents. They’re alive and happy. And me. I’m an Auror.” It wasn’t a complete lie, after all. As an afterthought, he added, “What do you see?”

 

Now it was Potter’s turn to blush. He rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Same as you, I guess. Suppose we have that in common.”

Draco’s heart fell flat. He turned sharply towards the other boy, searching frantically for any clue of a lie. And, as he looked into Potter’s eyes, he found it. There, in the reflection of his glasses, was the same image that Draco saw himself in the mirror, except with Draco on the right instead of Harry, A smile broke Draco’s face, and he felt like he wanted to burst from joy. 

“Oh, you stupid fucking Scarhead.” 

Draco grinned, and with a surge of boldness, he tackled Potter into a kiss. He reciprocated almost immediately, and Draco allowed himself to be shoved up against the wall of the Room, threading his fingers through Potter’s surprisingly soft hair. The dark-haired boy broke the kiss for a moment, and looked into Draco’s eyes.

“Please, call me Harry.”


End file.
